Maegor The Terrible

The hush lingered in the hall for a moment longer, the weight of Maegor's words settling over the gathered lords like a heavy fog. Then, as if on cue, a deep, resonant sound filled the air—the solemn tolling of great bronze bells atop the Red Keep and the Sept of Rememberens. One after another, their peals rolled across King's Landing, announcing to all, that the hour had come.

From the upper galleries, musicians took their cue. The sweet, sonorous notes of harps drifted down, mingling with the deep hum of organ pipes. Drums rumbled in the background, steady as a heartbeat. A choir of septas and singers began to chant, their voices rising in harmony to an old Valyrian hymn—a relic of the past, not a song of the Seven.

At the far end of the hall, robed in cloth of silver and a crown made of crystals the High Septon stepped forward towards the throne. The Most Devout had chosen him for his piety, and his devotion to the seven, yet even his ceremonial grandeur seemed dimmed by the imposing presence of the man he was about to crown. He raised his hands, his voice ringing out over the music.

"By the grace of the Seven Who are One," he intoned, "do we gather here to anoint Maegor of House Targaryen as King of Westeros. In the sight of the Father, who judges, the Mother, who nurtures, the Warrior, who fights, the Smith, who builds, the Maiden, who protects, the Crone, who grants wisdom, and the Stranger, who waits for us all—"

"Stop"

Maegor lifted a gauntleted hand. The music faltered. The choir's chant trailed off.

The High Septon shocked at the interruption hesitated, uncertain, glancing down at the massive man before him.

Maegor spoke, his voice carrying through the stunned silence.

"While the gods do bless my rule, the Seven did not forge this realm."

A murmur ran through the assembled lords. The High Septon blinked in astonishment, his mouth slightly open.

Maegor turned to face the hall, letting his words weigh on every ear.

"My father won Westeros by fire and blood, with my mother and aunt beside him. No god lifted a sword at his side. No god took the wounds he bore. No god rode Balerion into battle."

His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to contradict him. Then, slowly, he turned his eyes back to the High Septon.

"You, your... Holiness," a faint mockery could be sensed in his tone, "You are only a man. Made of flesh and blood"

"How can a man anoint a dragon, who is fire-made flesh itself?" he asked. "You would not crown me."

Gasps rippled through the lords. Some recoiled in shock, others looked at each other in disbelief. The Faith had always held the coronation rites, since before the conquest and even during Aegons coronation. This was unheard of.

The High Septon paled beneath his ornate headdress. "Your Grace, it is by the blessing of the gods that—"

Maegor did not let him finish. "The gods do bless me, but you are not a god."

Maegor turned toward the woman standing behind him.

"Only one here is fit to crown me," he said. "Only one among us has soared above mortal men, the Only one in this hall who made this realm, the woman who made me who I am."

"Only a dragon could crown a dragon" He turned to Visenya. "My mother, queen Visenya Targaryen the Conqurer, will place the crown upon my head."

A stunned silence followed, thick as storm clouds. 

The High Septon, humiliated, looked as though he might protest, but he hesitated—he knew what had happened to those who had defied Maegor before. To fight him in his castle would be a folly. And so, he bowed his head, stepping back, defeated, for now.

Visenya smiled.

Widely, Warmly—Visenya never smiled that way. Her pride and excitement was unmistakable.

Her son, she thought, was the only one to ever really love her apart from her mother. Maegor was her blessing, the only good thing Aegon has ever done for her. He was her reason for living, her greatest pride and joy, and at that moment it has never felt more true.

Slowly, she stepped forward, the heavy skirts of her black and red gown sweeping across the stone floor.

She reached out and took the crown—Aegon's crown, now Maegor's, the circlet of Valyrian steel set with rubies, the crown of the Conqueror. The very weight of it seemed to hum in her hands.

"You honor me, my son," she said.

Then, in full view of all, she lifted the crown high, her beautiful silver-gold hair gleaming like a warrior's helm in the torchlight.

"By fire and blood was this realm forged, and by fire and blood shall it be kept. By strength, by conquest, by the unyielding hand of House Targaryen."

She looked upon Maegor, her voice ringing with certainty.

"In the name of Old Valyria, in the name of the dragonlords who shaped destiny itself, I crown you Maegor of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm. Let all who stand before you know that power is a blessing, and it is yours to wield."

She placed the crown upon his brow.

"May your reign be long and prosperous, may your enemies tremble, and may the fires of the dragon never fade."

And just like that, before all the realm, Visenya Targaryen crowned Maegor the Cruel.

As the crown settled onto his brow, the lords and knights of the realm, those who still had their wits about them, hastily dropped to their knees. The High Septon, looking ill, murmured a blessing, though it was clear his words carried little weight now.

The musicians, uncertain, resumed their song.

As Maegor ascended the steps of the Iron Throne, the music and singing faded into a distant hum, drowned by the weight of the moment. Each step rang with the clang of his boots against the metal-strewn stair, each echo a declaration. The lords watched in silent awe—some with shock, others with quiet dread. He did not spare them a glance. Their approval was dust to him. Their fear, however, was another matter. Fear could be shaped. Molded. Ruled.

The throne loomed around him, jagged and towering, a monument to Aegon's conquest, to the fire and steel that had bound the Seven Kingdoms as one. But Aegon had been weak in the end, a conqueror who had allowed his realm to rot with softness and compromise. Maegor would not. He would finish what had been started, and in time, his name would stand above even Aegon's.

His mother's words still rang in his ears: Power is a blessing. The High Septon's shock still burned in the air, the lords shifting in uneasy silence. He had humiliated the Faith and cast them down in front of their flock. Let them choke on their prayers. Their gods had not won them this realm. We did.

He turned and lowered himself onto the throne. The metal bit into his back, cruel and unyielding. Good. A throne should never be comfortable. A ruler should never grow soft.

The weight of the crown settled on his brow, but Maegor felt no burden—only the iron certainty of his dominion. He was no mortal king groveling for the favor of gods. He was the dragon, and his reign had begun.

"All hail Magor of House Targaryen! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm!" called the heralds.

"Long may he reign!" answered the lords.

"We will now start the swearing of the oaths by Kingdo- Regions." said the herald "My lords, please kneel to his highness and swear the oaths when you are called upon. Starting with the Royal family"

his half-brother, Aenys came forward. His violet eyes flickered with nervousness, his silken robes flowing around his slender frame. He was no warrior, no conqueror. The great lords watched as the son of Rhaenys Targaryen, the son of the "true" queen, approached his kingly brother.

Kneeling, Aenys cleared his throat before speaking, his voice smooth but lacking strength:

"Before the eyes of gods and men, I, Aenys Targaryen, son of Aegon the Dragon, swear fealty to my brother, King Maegor, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. May his reign be long, his enemies few, and his name forever remembered in the annals of our House."

His words were well-spoken, but Maegor saw the doubt in his eyes. Even so, Aenys was the blood of the dragon and his brother.

"The Crownlands," called the herald "House Valerion step forward"

Aethan Velaryon strode forward, his sea-green cloak trailing behind him. His silver hair gleamed in the torchlight, marking him as kin to the dragonlords. He was a man of the waves, his House forever bound to the Targaryens by blood and loyalty. Bending the knee, he spoke in a steady voice:

"By the salt and the sea, by the blood of Old Valyria, House Velaryon swears its undying loyalty to King Maegor Targaryen, first of his name. Driftmark shall stand with the Iron Throne, and house Targaryen as it has since before the days of the Conqueror. May your reign be as unyielding as the tide."

Maegor gave a slow nod, knowing that the Velaryons had been steadfast. Their fleets would serve him well.

This continues for all other houses in the Crownlands.

"The Stormlands," called the herald "House Baratheon step forward"

Orys Baratheon stepped forward, the first of his House. The Stormlord was a massive man, like Maegor, built broad and strong, his black hair streaked with silver at the temples. The supposed bastard half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror, his mother never confirmed or denied it for him. He carried the weight of the Stormlands on his shoulders.

When he knelt, there was no hesitation. His voice rang through the hall like a clap of thunder:

"The Stormlands are yours, my king. House Baratheon bent the knee to your father, and now we bend it to you. My sword and my strength are yours, for as long as you hold the Iron Throne."

Maegor watched him carefully. Orys was a warrior, a man who respected strength. He would not kneel to weakness. There was no love in his oath, but there was truth. That Maegor could respect.

That process continued for all other houses in the Stormlands as well.

The North, the Vale, the Westlands, the Reach, the Riverlands. All of the houses in them, from the lord paramount to the landed knights, came forward kneeled, and swore their oath.

"The Dorne," called the herald "House Nymeros-Martel step forward"

The hall fell silent, no one stepped forward.

The herald called once again. "Deria Martell, lady of Dorne, come forth and swear fealty to your king."

The words hung in the air, but again no figure stepped forward. A murmur rippled through the gathered lords. All knew the Dornish had not bent the knee yet. They had not come at all.

Maegor leaned forward on the Iron Throne, his expression unreadable. He let the silence linger, stretching the tension. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he spoke:

"The Lady of Dorne must be indisposed," he mused, his deep voice carrying across the hall. "A sickness, perhaps? No doubt she wished to kneel but was unable. A great shame." "Maybe another lord could act as a replacement for now. Lord Dayne maybe."

A few uneasy chuckles came from the crowd. The Dornish envoys, standing at the fringes of the assembly, stiffened but held their tongues.

The herald tried again.

"Lord Dayne of Starfall, come forth and swear fealty."

Silence.

"Lord Yronwood, come forth and swear fealty."

Still, no answer. The absence was absolute.

Maegor exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned back, gripping the armrest of the throne. His gauntleted fingers tapped against the steel.

"It seems the lords of Dorne have all been struck mute. Or perhaps they have forgotten their place." He let his gaze sweep over the hall before settling on the Dornish envoys. "I had thought Dorne had stopped with its rebellion and wanted to make amends with its rightful ruler on his coronation. I see now I was mistaken. This insult—" He paused, letting the word land heavily. "—cannot stand. If they will not kneel, they will burn."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd. The Dornish ambassadors stood frozen, their faces pale beneath their sun-kissed skin. This was no mere slight. This was war.

Maegor rose from the Iron Throne, his voice a decree of iron and fire.

"Dorne has chosen rebellion. The penalty shall be paid in blood."

The lords of Westeros whispered among themselves, knowing that before Maegor's reign had truly begun, fire and death would sweep across the sands.

"But, I am a benevolent ruler" he continued, "Evey Dornish lord that will come or send a representative to kneel and swear before me in the next 3 months will retain his title."

"Else he and his house will be considered traitors to the realm, will be put to death, and have their lands and possessions confiscated"

"So do I declare"